


Clinically, You'll Be Fine

by aspengrove



Category: Palaye Royale (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Injury, Sickfic, no pronouns for reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspengrove/pseuds/aspengrove
Summary: A series of Remington/Reader oneshots. Remington is illness- and accident-prone. The reader is implied to possibly be some kind of medical type. (EMT, pre-med, doctor, nursing student, whatever you want. If you want to headcannon yourself as 18 with full MD credentials, go for it because this is fan fiction, goddamnit. You’re allowed.)1: My Heart Will Go On: While hanging out with Palaye on the bus after a show, you notice something’s up with Remington.2: Hot in More Ways Than One: Remington is sick, and doesn’t feel good or self-confident.3: Just a Little Broken: After getting hurt during a bad show, you try your best to patch Remington up, both physically and mentally.





	1. My Heart Will Go On

Walking onto the bus after the show, the party’s already started. And by “party”, you mean Sebastian and Dan are a little drunk, there’s music in the background, and everyone’s chatting and laughing. 

“Ay! You’re here!” Sebastian says at a decibel that confirms he’s had some gin. 

Looking around, you try to see where you could possibly sit or stand or even just exist in general. Tour buses are better than vans, but they’re always somehow too small. 

“Join us!” Remington calls from the couch where he sits next to Emerson. 

“Where?” you ask. 

“Right here!” he scooches over, making room for you on the end next to him. You sit down, and neither of you seems to mind being pressed together. Remington doesn’t even seem to notice, but you definitely do. 

For some reason, whoever is controlling the music puts on “My Heart Will Go On” which Sebastian immediately steps up to offer an impassioned, slightly slurred cover of. Emerson rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling at his brother’s antics. 

“I see you.” Sebastian turns to Daniel and, putting a hand on his shoulder, tells him “I FEEL you.” 

Curcio shakes his head. “Dude… don’t—” He’s trying very hard not to laugh. 

“Far aCROSS the DIStance,” Seb warbles, getting down onto one knee. Dan’s shoulders start to shake he tries to hold back the laughter, his smile nearly as wide as his face. Remington starts cracking up, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn’t interrupt the theatrics. You can feel his body, right next to yours, shaking as he laughs. 

By the time it hits the first chorus, everyone starts to join in with faux reverence. “My heart will go ON and OOOOON!” 

At the second verse, Sebastian’s botched seduction attempts continue, but Remington turns towards you and puts his hands on your waist. You know what to do. You try to extend your arms but it’s tight quarters on the bus, with Remington on one side and the kitchenette counter on the other. You look around, shifting and trying to figure out how to make this work. 

“Hang on,” Remington says. He pulls you into his lap. 

You hold your arms up. “I’m flying, Remington!” He wraps his arms around you and puts his chin on your shoulder. 

“Near… FAAAAR!” you belt as everyone competes to be the most dramatic. 

Sebastian falls to the van floor, reaching up. “Never let go, Curcio!” 

Dan kneels, grabbing Sebastian’s arms. “I promise!” 

The rest of you try to continue with the song. “My heart will go oooooon and oooon!” 

“There’s definitely room, you bastard!” Sebastian yells. 

“No there isn’t!” Daniel says. “The script says there isn’t!” 

“I don’t think you’re invested in this relationship!” Sebastian tells him from the floor. “You just like me because I’m Leonardo DeCaprio!” 

Remington wheezes behind you as he struggles to catch his breath in his laughing fit. 

“I’ll never let go, Sebastian!” Curcio grabs Seb’s shoulders and leans down to get closer to him. “I’ll never let go!” 

A few of you try to finish off the impromptu karaoke, but laughing makes it hard to keep track of where you are in the song. Eventually you give up, focusing on catching your breath, leaning back against Remington, whose arms are still snugly placed around your waist. 

As the music changes to something less meme-able and everyone starts to settle down again, you half-turn back to Remington. 

“Should I get off of you?” you ask. 

“Only if you want to,” he says. You decide to stay put. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

As you watch Seb and Dan enthusiastically recounting the highlights of the show that night, you notice something. 

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask Remington. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“You’re a little warm,” you remark. “Are you getting sick again?” A nasty flu had made the rounds in the bus a few weeks ago, but no one wanted to call off any of the shows, leaving Remington and the rest of the band to soldier through it with Gatorade and surgical masks. 

“No, I’m fine,” he assures you. 

“Your face is flushed. Does the back of your throat feel rough at all? Are you nauseous?” you ask. “If you catch it early you might be able to stop it from being so bad.” 

“No, no, I’m okay,” he says hastily. 

Of course he would deny it if he’s coming down with something. He just got over the last bus plague, and he’s finally feeling better and having fun again instead of being miserable, holed up in his bunk under a pile of blankets. But you’re not going to let it slide because you don’t want him to have to go through that again. 

You take one of his hands from around your waist and flip the palm up, placing two fingertips just on the outside of the tendons in his wrist. 

“Your heart rate is really fast,” you tell him. Now you’re worried. “You didn’t actually do cocaine, did you? That was just a joke, right?” 

“No. I didn’t do cocaine,” Remington explains in a quiet but slightly tense voice. 

“Look,” you say, trying to word it carefully. “If you don’t know what it is, this might be something serious so I’m just trying to figure out what it is. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“You’re really smart, but you’re a little stupid sometimes,” Remington mutters. 

You draw a blank as you struggle to connect what he said to what you had been talking about, all while trying to not be offended, because he probably didn’t mean for it to come out that way. 

“So you know what it is?” you ask him. 

“Yeah.”

Still lost, you ask “What is it?” 

“I like you.” 

“Oh,” you say. Then the symptoms begin to fall into place. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Well… that’s not nearly as bad as I thought,” you tell him. “Actually, that’s not really a bad thing at all, if you think about it.” 

“So in your professional, medical opinion… it’s a good thing? That I like you, I mean.” 

“Well, in general… in your specific case…” you draw his arms around you a little tighter. “Yes, that’s a good thing. Especially since I thought you were going to have a heart attack or something.” 

“Don’t worry,” Remington says. “My heart will go on.”


	2. Hot in More Ways Than One

The coughing wakes you up. It’s not the kind of coughing someone gets when they have a bit of a cold. It’s the kind that sounds a little too deep to be normal. That rattles the ribcage a bit. 

Waking up, Remington isn’t in the bunk with you, so he must be out in the main area. You get a sinking feeling when you hear another few coughs. You know that voice, even when it isn’t saying anything. 

“Rem?” He looks up from where he sits, huddled in the corner of the couch. 

“Did I wake you up?” he asks. His voice has undertones that are rougher than usual. “Sorry.” 

You choose not to answer him, not wanting him to feel guilty. “Are you okay?” you ask as you sit next to him. “You don’t sound so good.” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I should probably get one of those masks, though.” 

“Mmm,” you agree. “What do you want to drink?” you ask him. 

“I’m okay,” he tells you. 

“No, I’m getting you something to drink. You have to stay hydrated if you’re coming down with something.” He shrugs. “Please. It’ll make me feel better.” 

“Something warm,” he tells you. 

As you wait for the water to boil in the electric kettle, you go through the messy cabinets and fridge to find honey and lemon juice. Remington says something you can’t quite make out over the hum of the bus’s engine. 

“Sorry, what did you say?” you ask, trying to keep your voice down to let everyone else sleep. 

“Does it feel cold to you?” he asks. 

“Not to me, no.” You add a bit of hot water to a foam cup, stirring in a spoonful of honey and a splash of lemon juice. A bit of bottled water brings it to a temperature that he can actually drink. 

“I swear, if the heat goes out again…” he mutters. 

When you give him the lemon drink, his hands wrap around it intently. You gently reach out to rest a hand on his forehead. 

“You’re pretty warm,” you tell him. 

“I’m fine.” He gives you a half-hearted smile and takes a sip.

“I don’t fuck around with fevers,” you tell him. “I don’t trust them. You should probably try to get some more sleep.” 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. “I’ve had worse.” He coughs a few more times. 

“Oh, this one isn’t over yet,” you remind him. “It could get a lot worse. And yeah, I know you’ve had worse, but that doesn’t mean I want that happening.”

He shrugs again, staring into space and drinking more of the lemon concoction. 

“I don’t want to argue,” you tell him. “I just don’t want you to be miserable for a week. If you get some rest now, it might not get as bad later. Please?” You hold out your hand. 

He finishes drinking the lemon water, sets the empty foam cup down, and reaches up to take your hand.

You gently lead him back to the bunk. 

“Try to get to sleep?” you ask. 

He sighs, but lies down, pulling the covers over himself a little. 

“You probably shouldn’t stay here,” he says. “I don’t wanna get you sick.” 

“If you’re cold, you’ll want extra body heat, right?” you say. And besides, you can keep a better eye on him like this. If things get worse, you’ll know. “What if I was the big spoon? That way I’m not breathing your air as much.” 

“No, just…” There’s something beyond the usual listlessness that accompanies sickness. You can sense there’s something he’s not saying. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, kneeling so your face is on the same level as his. 

“I don’t feel hot,” he says quietly. 

“Well yeah,” you say. “When people have a fever they usually feel cold. It’s the body’s response to try to raise your temperature, so it—” 

“No I mean…” he cuts you off. He isn’t quite meeting your eyes. “I feel gross. I don’t feel like… I just don’t want you to see me like this. I’m not…” 

Oh. You’ve felt the same way before, but something inside you melts suddenly and violently. 

“Rem… I don’t fucking care. Hey,” you add softly. “Look at me. Please?” He finally looks up, his big, dark brown eyes meeting yours. “I’m in love with you. I’m not in love with you because of your on-point makeup, or your gorgeous face, or your killer abs. Though I would be lying if I said that wasn’t a perk,” you add. 

He smiles a bit. 

“I’m in love with how you care about people, and how you’re happy to just sit quietly together sometimes, and how you sound when you’ve worn out your voice too much, and how you make bad jokes that are actually oddly clever, and how your face lights up when you see animals,” you tell him. “All of it. I’m in love with all of you. All the time. Which means I’m also in love with you when you’re sick and you feel gross.” 

“But—” 

“Don’t you start,” you warn him with a smile. “Don’t you start that. Because I love you despite you being sick.” 

He smiles weakly. 

“You know what? No,” you continue. “I love you because you’re sick. Because you’re so hot that you make being sick kinda hot too.” 

He almost laughs, but starts coughing instead, curling up a bit on his side to cough into the sheets. When he stops he groans a little, but he’s still smiling a bit. 

“Okay, I’m still hot,” he admits. “But I feel really cold.” 

“You know, I still have all this extra body heat,” you tell him. “It’s not doing much good right now, but you can have it if you want.” 

He’s tired and sick, but his smile still manages to make your heart light up.

“Okay.” 

He moves over a little to make room for you to slide in behind him under the sheets. You wrap your arms around him and he shifts to settle his back against you, and to partially intertwine his legs with yours. 

He really is quite hot. In more ways than one.


	3. Just a Little Broken

“Do I even have to say it?” you ask. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Remington tells you over his shoulder. His bare back is towards you, giving you full view of the nasty scrapes across it. You didn’t see the extent of them back when he was still on stage, but in the fluorescent light of the bathroom off the venue’s greenroom, the red patches stand out rather harshly on his skin. 

You sigh. “Yeah, apparently it never is.” Placing the first aid kit on the edge of the sink, you open it and start looking for what you need. “But you’re one of the most accident-prone people I know.” 

“I wasn’t my fault,” he repeats, but this time he’s more defensive, and agitated. 

“I know,” you tell him softly. “I’m sorry.” 

He’s right. Something about him is a lightning rod for violent people sometimes. And this time it was someone who, for some unknown reason, thought it was a good idea to tackle him when he went into the crowd during the set. 

Through the silence between you, a few sounds bleed through: the far-off chatter of people leaving after the show, the bumps and rattles and rolling as rest of the band and crew packing things up, and the buzz of the fluorescent light. It’s broken by the quick tearing sound as you open an alcohol wipe. 

“Hold still…” You swipe gently at the area around the scrapes, but don’t get to the broken skin yet. Remington shivers under your hand. It might have been hot on stage, but the heat is dissipating quickly, and the adrenaline in his system must be too. 

“I just get worried about you,” you tell him, moving to carefully clean around the next scrape, trying not to suddenly get alcohol in the cuts without warning him first. Remington shifts a bit, but doesn’t say anything. The hum of the fluorescent light is starting to bore into your brain. It makes you want to say something, anything to break the silence again. 

“Sometimes I think… I think you might be reckless on purpose.” You can’t see his face because his back is still to you, leaving you to glance at the spiky hair on the back of his head. “But I don’t want to assume things. And I definitely don’t want to blame you for getting hurt when it wasn’t your fault.” 

You hear him say something, just one or two syllables, but it’s so quiet you can’t make it out. 

“Sorry, did you say something?” 

You wait, but he doesn’t respond. 

“Remington…” 

Even his body language difficult to read. He stands still, his shoulders are hunched over a bit, and your eyes rest on his In Utero tattoo near the top of his spine, and how its symmetry makes the random distribution of red scrapes seem even more out of place. 

“Remington, I’m always going to be here for you, and you can ask for help with things, even if they aren’t scrapes or bruises or fevers.” You go to clean around the next scrape. “I can usually tell when there’s something going on, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is. It’s like if I saw blood seeping through your shirt, but you keep telling me there’s nothing wrong and then you put on a jacket to try to hide it.” 

You toss the wipe out and get a few wads of sterile gauze, soaking them in the cold tap from the skin. 

“I’m going to start cleaning them now, okay?” you tell him. He nods. As you gently swipe the dusting of dirt and thin layer of fluids off the scrapes, he tenses, but doesn’t make a sound. 

“You won’t be a burden telling me what’s going on,” you say, getting fresh gauze and dousing it with water. “If anything, it’s way worse when you don’t tell me.” You work on the next scrape and you see Remington’s muscles tense again. “It’s like getting hurt physically,” you tell him. “Sometimes you can fix it on your own, but sometimes you need someone to help. No one’s shittalking you for not being able to bandage wounds on your back. If they are, they’re assholes and that’s their problem.” You finish rinsing off the scrapes, tossing the used gauze in the trash. 

“I guess,” he says. 

“I’ll tell you something else about these kinds of things… If you don’t take care of it soon, it can become an even bigger problem. Like an infection. It can get worse and mess you up.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “Are you done?” 

“Nope,” you tell him. “That floor was filthy. I’m going to use some rubbing alcohol, too.” 

“Nooooo,” he groans softly. “You really don’t have to. I’ll be okay.” 

“Sorry, but you asked me to patch you up, and I refuse to do a half-assed job. I’m doing this the right way, because it’s you, and I care about you.” 

“But it hurts,” he nearly whines. 

“Yep,” you tell him, getting out the rubbing alcohol. “That’s a lot of things in life. But if it hurts a little now, you’ll save yourself a lot of hurt later.” You pour some onto more gauze. 

He turns to grip the edge of the sink and draws a quick breath. You swipe the saturated gauze over the nastiest scrape, and his whole body tenses. “Agh!” 

Working quickly, you swipe alcohol over the other places with abrasions. 

Remington takes a tense breath in that’s almost a hiss. He smiles in pain and shakes his head, looking back at you. “I’m beginning to think you might be a sadist,” he tells you. 

“Rude of you to assume that, even though I can see why,” you say. “But you did write a song called ‘Masochist,’ so I’m surprised you’re complaining about pain.” 

Remington laughs, though part of it is probably the pain. “Okay, are we done now?” 

“Nope,” you tell him again. “Antibacterial, wound dressings, and you still need to tell me the other stuff that’s going on.” 

He sighs, the smile falling off his face again as he turns back to face away from you. 

“Yeah, I’m a little reckless on purpose.” 

You decide to just give him space to talk, so you get a tube of antibacterial ointment, and start gently spreading a thin layer over the scrapes, waiting for him to continue. 

“It’s a rock show,” he starts. “It isn’t easy being a musician. I want to make sure everyone feels like it was worth it to come see us.” 

“But… I feel like you’re trying to prove something, but I don’t know what,” you tell him, spreading the antibiotic over other scrapes, and shifting your head so the shine of it in the light can show you if you missed a spot. 

“There were so many years when practically no one would show up. I don’t ever want to go back to that. I don’t want to go back to feeling worthless. Like no one cares about what I decided to dedicate my life to.” 

“I don’t think you’ll ever go back to that,” you tell him, wiping the excess antibiotic off your fingers. “Do you have any idea what you mean to some people?” You unfold layers of gauze, eyeing what it’ll take to cover the scrapes. “They’re not going to forget you just because you didn’t leave the stage bleeding. They know you. They love you. They care about you and the music. You know that.” You place the gauze gently over the scrape and grab the paper tape, carefully tearing off a piece and laying it against the edge of the gauze to hold it down, pressing it gently against his skin. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.” You finish securing it in place and get more gauze for the next one. 

“And there will always be people who don’t like you, for whatever reason,” you elaborate. “I have no idea why someone wouldn’t like you, but you don’t need to try to prove yourself to them. It’s wasted energy, and you don’t owe them anything.” You finish securing the gauze down and move to bandage the third scrape. 

“Right,” he says. “I know that, I just… forget it sometimes.” 

“Well, just let me know whenever you need reminding,” you tell him, finishing placing another piece of gauze. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I think… I think that’s all that was bothering me.” 

“Glad I could help.” You bandage another scrape. “I’m glad I know what’s going on, because I know a lot of things, but what’s on your mind isn’t always one of them.” 

He nods his head. 

“And was it really so painful to tell me?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he replies. 

“Okay, but less than the alcohol, right?” 

“Just a little bit.” 

You finish covering up the scrapes. “I think you’re okay for now. You’re up to date on your tetanus shots, right?” 

“Tetanus?” he asks, almost incredulously. 

“Listen, I don’t know what is on those venue floors, and neither do you. And I don’t want to tempt fate. Not with your bad luck.” 

“Yeah,” he says, turning around to face you again. “Yeah, I’m good.” He’s smiling again. 

“Good.” 

Looking into his face, you can’t help but smile too. He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss, his soft lips pressing against yours. Short, but sweet. Looking at him again, it isn’t hard to remember why you keep staying with this accident-prone boy. That smile could make you high if you stared at it too long. 

“Was it that bad?” he asks. “I mean, you’re asking about tetanus.” 

“It looked nasty, but it should heal up fine,” you tell him, turning away to start putting things back into the first aid kit. “It broke the skin, but not too much. It’s just a little broken.” 

Remington chuckles slightly. “Yeah, that’s... the other stuff, too,” he tells you. 

“What other stuff? Did I miss something?” Did he hurt his ankle or something, too? 

“Not-physical stuff.” 

Oh. “What about it?” 

“Me,” he laughs. “Physical and mental. That’s all of me, I guess: just a little broken.”


End file.
